above the moon
by closingdoors
Summary: Set between season three and four. A summer of healing. COMPLETE.


Where do all the unsaid I love you's in the world go? she inquired. And the second girl replied, Perhaps they float in someone's bathtub on top of the water, struggling to stay afloat. Or maybe there's even a special landfill in New York for them, a huge mountain of them, stacked millions and millions of miles high, so high that it towers above the moon. But wherever they are, they must die such lonely, painful deaths.

**Fragment 97, Meggie C. Royer**

* * *

Autumnal light spills across the rungs of her ribs as she stretches, deliciously naked beside him, skin all light stark cream in comparison to the deep chocolate of his bed sheets. Without thought he lets his clumsy hands reach out and stroke across the skin there, hearing the huff of her laughter while his eyes remain only half-open, half-asleep. He knows that soon these moments will be gone, when she completes her recovery from the shooting and will be called into the precinct at ridiculous hours; soft mornings like this ought to be treasured.

Her body is still just a little less than lithe, just a little too bony for her recovery to sit well in the cage of his chest. Of course, he has no idea what it was her body looked like before – unless you count the fractured glance he took as he rescued her from her burning building two years ago. He knows that she has always been slim, with curves in all the right places, but he does not know her body without her scars. The harsh red lines carved along her sides, the angry blot between her breasts.

They're beautiful – her signs of survival.

"Mmm, Castle," Kate hums, wiping at her eyes and arching into his palm as it travels up and towards her breasts. "I can feel you thinking."

He still can't believe it sometimes – that they're here, like this. That _she's _here, after everything that happened at the beginning of the summer, when he thought he had finally lost her, that this time he just couldn't save her. Sometimes he wakes in the night to total darkness without the sound of her steady breathing beside him and he finds himself lost, grief freezing his bones until she emerges from the bathroom and immediately rushes over to comfort him.

"Got a lot to think about," he replies.

She runs a hand through her hair, a little matted and tangled from a long night of tossing and turning. Eventually, when the darkness had been forcing their insides to cave in on each other, their naked skin had found one another's and instead of the screaming in the cemetery that had been rattling between his ears he had heard the real, warm sigh of his name on her lips.

Kate props herself up on her elbow, his hand falling to rest on her hip. She studies him fondly, ghosting her thumb against his lips.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he replies hoarsely. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"It's okay not to be, you know," she tells him quietly. "Sometimes it's okay to just – need some time out. Nobody's gonna hold that against you. I never would."

Something in his body language must give him away, because then she's scooting closer, letting him tug her to him. He cradles her close to him, legs all tangled, hands cupping her shoulder blades, lips lost somewhere along the ethereal construction of her collarbones.

"I can't stop thinking about it, Kate," he admits to her skin.

Her body shudders, fingers carding through his hair. "Me neither."

"Don't leave me," he whispers.

Her lips find his, powerful and hungry, her nails digging into the nape of his neck. The pain is shocking, welcoming. He can't help the groan that rumbles through him when her teeth tug on his lower lip.

How was he ever able to survive before this? She has become his everything.

"Never," she pants between kisses. "Never."

* * *

One afternoon – when Kate's away meeting her father for lunch – he finds his mother and daughter in the kitchen, intently focusing on some article he hasn't bothered to read. Really, he should begin keeping up with the news again. It's just – since the shooting – and this thing between he and Kate started – he's been so preoccupied with his own slice of happiness to consider the suffering of others.

"Afternoon, mother," he greets them, kissing her cheek before doing the same to his Alexis. "Afternoon, daughter."

Alexis grins – his beautiful baby, who's starting her last year of school in a matter of weeks. Everything is changing and he's not sure how he's supposed to keep up. But at least there's Kate. She keeps him grounded – stops him from tumbling over the edge.

"You seem happy," Alexis comments, exchanging a glance with her grandmother.

"I'm – doing okay," he answers, picking up some leftover pasta from the fridge.

"That's brilliant, darling," his mother says, clasping her hands together.

He settles in front of them, eating from the container and he pretends not to notice when his daughter attempts to surreptitiously hide the article from his view. Eh, probably something bad about his writing that they don't want to bother him with now that they've found him in a good mood.

"I'll be going back to the precinct soon," he tells them, hesitating to add on the _with kate, _knowing the subject is still too raw for his daughter. "In a few weeks at most, I think."

His mother's eyes widen while his daughter's shoulders deflate.

"Why, Richard, are you sure that's a good idea?"

He shrugs. "Gotta happen eventually, right? I've missed the place."

"But dad – " Alexis pauses, pressing her lips together as she looks back down at the article she had hidden from him. "Why?"

He frowns, glancing between them. Okay. What?

"Honey, I know that what happened at Montgomery's funeral affected you," he says gently, watching the way his daughter's blue eyes begin to fill with tears. "But – there comes a time when we all have to move on and remember how to live in the world that moment left behind. I think that time is soon."

His mother rubs Alexis's back comfortingly as the girl speaks again.

"I don't think it would be good for you."

His eyes widen. What?

"Emotionally," she clarifies. "I – Dad, you can't just pretend it didn't happen."

Slowly, he sets the food down on the counter, standing to round to the side his daughter sits on. Her eyes are all wide, sad, tugging on his heartstrings as he pulls her into his arms, lets her settle against his chest. He sighs, words heavy in his lungs – he doesn't want to burden his daughter like this. She shouldn't have had to witness the shooting. He should never have brought such violence into her life.

"I'm not pretending, Alexis. I'm just trying to live again," he tells her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I promise you, Alexis. Everything will be okay again eventually."

His daughter sniffs, looking up at him. "You still love her, don't you?"

He strokes his thumb across her cheek. "I'll never stop."

* * *

"Mmm, now this is a sight."

Startled, Castle glances up after emerging from the bathroom to find Kate lazing in bed, finally returned from her physical therapy session. She looks… good, actually. Normally, she's tired, weak, actually lets him run her a bath and fetch her a glass of wine (which, okay, maybe she shouldn't be mixing with her medication – but it's only a _glass) _but now she's. She's. He doesn't know how to define it.

"Stop objectifying me, Beckett," he teases as her eyes travel over his bare chest, stopping on the towel wrapped around his hips.

"Oh, I'm back to Beckett now?"

Before he can think of a reply to that, she's risen gracefully from the bed, wrapping her body around his and letting her lips ghost against his. This damn woman. She's going to be the death of him. And he doesn't mind one bit.

"What can I do to get back to Kate, Rick?" She practically purrs, fingers flirting with his towel.

He lets it drop, watching the smile that spreads across her lips.

"I can think of a few things."

* * *

Pillow talk isn't something he thought Kate Beckett would ever partake in. Maybe because she's still out of work, isn't quite as exhausted as she would be after a case. He loves every moment of it, though, the soft way she speaks as the sweat on their body begins to cool and New York night wraps itself around the window. She'll tangle her fingers with his occasionally, her affection making his skin warm as hers is swathed in moonlight – _this _is intimacy, vulnerability, despite the dance of their bodies just moments before. This is real tenderness.

"Are you going to tell your family about us soon?" she asks, fingers skating over his palm as she settles her head against his shoulder.

"I think so," he replies. "I know Alexis is still – she has her reservations. But she accepted the idea of me going back to the precinct eventually, so I know she'll be okay with this in the end."

Kate hums. "And your mother?"

"Well, she only wants what's best for me. A blind man could see that that's you."

Kate goes quiet for a moment, and he thinks that maybe he's overstepped the mark – they haven't really discussed it, his _I love you _as she was shot. They haven't really discussed what this is, either, not that he's too eager to put a label on it if that makes her uncomfortable. He hopes his love for her doesn't make her uncomfortable. He could never make it stop. Would never really want to, either.

"You're the best thing for me too," she admits into the silence.

That makes his breath catch, throat tightening. God, when did he become so lucky? This is _Kate Beckett. _She was shot – in the heart – just under three months ago. He almost lost her. And now she's in his bed, taking up all the spaces of his life, saying things that make his heart beat fiercely. Though he had always hoped for it, for times like these, he had never really believed that they would become _real. _

"I'm going to tell my father. Soon," she says.

"How do you think he'll react?"

"He'll be pleased. You tried to save my life, Rick, tried to take a bullet for me. I think you're in his good books," Kate tells him, laughing softly.

He turns, laughing into her hair.

"Yeah, well, let's not ever tell him about the police horse story."

Kate smiles, tangling her fingers with his.

"That'll be our little secret."

* * *

Her body moves enthusiastically beneath his, muscles rippling with strength as she wraps both of her legs around his waist. He muffles the noises she's making – soft little pants that drive him wild – with the warmth of his mouth, revelling in the groan he feels travel through her as they're chest to chest.

It's so good, so right, every time. Everything he's ever dreamed and more – she was right, all those years ago. He really had no idea. And now he's doomed, forever ruined by this woman. But that's okay, because he'll never want anyone else but her.

"I love you," he pants, and when he looks down at her she is cold and unresponsive, eyes closed and skin pale and stiff, dead with a bullet lodged into her chest.

He blinks and she's back, swallowing his words into her lungs and he lets himself fall.

* * *

A few days after, Castle lays stretched across the couch, attempting to stay awake. Kate curls up against him despite the knowledge that his mother or his daughter could walk in at any moment. Though he knows that probably wouldn't be the best way for them to find out about this – relationship, of sorts, he can't brings himself to move. She is so soft and warm and real against him.

When the door opens, he bolts up to find his mother entering. She's not unsteady on her feet, so she's sober. She catches him watching her and sighs.

"Darling, why are you sleeping on the couch?"

Castle stretches his arms above him, sighing when his bones click and groan in all the right ways. Okay. Maybe sex with Kate has been wearing him out, but they're both pretty insatiable.

"Just dozed off. Good night?"

Martha nods, resting her hands on the back of the couch.

"Kiddo…"

He frowns at the tone of her voice. "Mother."

"How long are you going to keep doing this to yourself?"

Like Alexis, she presses her lips together, watching him carefully. It makes him think of the first time he received a rejection letter when trying to get published, one of the first times he began to think that perhaps his dream wasn't quite as close as he had hoped it would be. She'd looked at him like that then.

"I don't know what you're talking about, mother."

"This – moping around, never writing, but pretending everything is okay. The fact that you…." She shakes her head, fiddling with her gloves. "I don't want to intrude, Richard. But it's not healthy, what you're doing. You need to let go, darling."

"We all have our different methods of coping, mother," he tells her. "I really am okay."

But – actually, when did Kate leave?

"Darling, Katherine is – "

"We don't need to do this, mother," he says, standing from the couch as everything suddenly feels very cold inside of him. "I'm going to bed."

"Richard – "

"Good night, mother."

He closes the door to his office behind him and studies the Nikki Heat books staring back at him tauntingly. Letting out something between a shout and a groan, he swipes his arm across the shelf, lets them all tumble to the floor even as his heart pounds at the thought of damaging his words for Kate. Kate – Kate, Kate, Kate. She is everything.

His room is cold when he stops in the doorway and he finds her sitting at the end of the bed, naked. Her knees are drawn up against her chest; chin resting on them as she watches him carefully, mutely. Moonlight filters in through the windows and turns her silver.

"Why won't you leave me alone, Kate?"

His voice is ragged and worn. He is so tired. He just wants to sleep.

Her eyes rise to his, face solemn and tired too.

"Where else would I go?"

* * *

He waits until his family are out before he decides to leave. When he emerges from his room in his coat he finds Kate already lingering by the doorway, ringing her hands, an anxious frown creasing her forehead. He wants to smooth the line with his skin, make her smile again, but Kate Beckett never rung her hands.

"You don't need to do this," she says when she spots him.

Everything feels heavy. Maybe he's still dreaming.

"Yes," he rasps. "I do."

The drive is quiet. She doesn't attempt to speak again, to argue, instead bites at her fingernails and he studies the profile of her while she stares out of the car window. God, she's beautiful. So beautiful. Makes his heart pound and his lungs empty and when she _smiles _it's everything and her warmth is so infectious and – and it _hurts. _It hurts everywhere.

"Castle," she whispers when they pull up outside.

He doesn't reply. Knows that she'll follow. Autumn leaves crunch beneath his feet as everything begins to wilt and die for winter, and he doesn't look back at her, following the path to where he needs to go. He's only been here once, yet manages to navigate his way around even when numbness tingles in his fingertips and begins to spread through his body, squeezing his lungs uncomfortably. It's chilly this time of year so he turns his collar up, combating the wind that tries to push him back. He's miserable.

Eventually, he stops, staring, waiting for her to catch up with him. She appears as silently as she always does, standing next to him almost afraid. One of her hands reaches out for him and brushes against the sleeve of his coat, makes him shiver. She lets it drop back to her side.

"Please," she says.

He takes a deep breath.

"This is where they buried you."

He doesn't look up from her gravestone but hears the hitch of her breath.

"I – I still remember it. Lanie was _sobbing. _Alexis walked away. I don't think I met the boys' eyes once, and then, after, I went home and drank enough to make me pass out and thought about how ashamed of me you would've been."

She takes a step forward. "I'm _here._"

"Sometimes, I think, I'm still stuck in those few hours where I didn't know whether you were dead or alive. I'm stuck in that hospital hallway with your blood on my hands hoping against all logic that you'll march up to me and tell me to snap out of it, to ask if I really thought a bullet would stop you from catching your mother's killer," his throat hurts as he whispers, his eyes burn. "I remember – when the doctor finally asked for your family, and then he… he told us you were dead. And you made me forget that, Kate. You made me forget that you're _dead."_

He doesn't have to look at her to know that she's crying, he can hear it in her voice.

"I don't have to be. You keep me alive, Castle."

"But you're not _her. _I made you up – you're… you're everything I dreamed. But I don't remember when we first got together, Kate. I don't remember our first conversation after you were shot or celebrating that you were alive – I don't – I don't remember because you're not real."

Glancing away from her gravestone, he watches the tears dripping from her eyes onto her blotchy cheeks. It's so – so close to the real thing. Is he going insane? Is that what this is?

"I could be," she rasps.

"No. No, you're just – you're just dreams I keep forgetting to let go of. The real Kate, she would – she wouldn't be so lax about her recovery. She would ask about her shooter. She wouldn't be so happy, not now – she would be messy and confused and that – _that _is real."

Kate pushes her hands through her hair, stares at him desperately.

"I love you."

His eyes slam closed, anguish gnawing away at his skin as it prickles and burns yet numbs all over. This is insanity. He always needed her to keep him grounded, after all.

"I hope you did," he murmurs. "I hope that – that me telling you I love you gave you some kind of peace. But you're gone. You're dead. You're not coming back."

He opens his eyes again and she's disappeared, a swirl of leaves caught up in the wind taking her place. Breath escapes him all at once and he almost falls to his knees.

She's gone. She's dead. She's not coming back.

Castle looks back at the gravestone, still so fresh and real and he can't _stand _it. She's right there. Beneath all that mud, that soil, and he'd _forgotten. _He'd forgotten than she's been here all this time, rotting, when really she should be living her life to the fullest and giving him even more reasons to love her every day.

Carefully, he sits down on the ground, rests his fingers against her name.

She's dead.

She's not coming back.

"Oh, Kate," he rasps, pitching forward until he feels the cool marble against his forehead, and then it all comes tumbling out of him at once.

He grieves for the first time in three months with the phantom feeling of her lips against his neck.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
